


Jeeves And The Honeymoon

by cuddyclothes



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Anal Play, Bertie Can't Stay Out Of The Soup, Bertie Learns To Love The Word Nipple, Class Issues, Clothing Kink, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, He Brings His Own Ladle, Idiots in Love, Jeeves Is A Big Mushy Romantic, M/M, Misunderstandings, Period-Typical Homophobia, Smut, The Sexual Effect Of Teal, Trans Female Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:40:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26072029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuddyclothes/pseuds/cuddyclothes
Summary: After the events of "Jeeves And The Chorus Girl", Bertie and Jeeves head to Paris for their honeymoon. It proves less than ideal. Jeeves is mistaken for Bertie's sugar daddy. Flamboyant "female impersonator" Miss Flambe' turns up, performing at a Paris drag club.  She wants revenge on a heckler. This leads to Bertie landing headfirst in the soup. Especially when Jeeves overhears Bertie describe him as "just a valet".Will Bertie's bumbling cost him his one true love?Many thanks to Belphegor for helping me to think up and translate Jeeves's romantic endearments to French! And thanks to Wotwotleigh as always for invaluable assistance!This will be rather slow going because of other commitments, but I love these two too much not to keep detailing their adventures!
Relationships: Reginald Jeeves/Bertram "Bertie" Wooster
Comments: 22
Kudos: 32





	1. Escape From Paris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bertie and Jeeves are in St. Jean Cap-Ferrat.

I gazed out of the window at the moon shining on the water. Beyond the water there were mountains. St. Jean-Cap Ferrat was quite a splendid place in the summer and it wasn’t half-bad in the winter. Although it was close to Christmas, the temp was far more suitable to the Wooster corpus than the frigid are of France. Jeeves and self were enjoying a last-minute stay at the Grand Hotel, a marble multistoried barn facing the Riviera. There were only a smattering of guests, which was fine by me.

Dressed in my finest heliotrope silk pajamas and bespoke dressing gown, smoking a cigarette, I felt quite Noel Coward.

“Jeeves, I feel quite Noel Coward.”

“Indeed, sir?”

“Continental. Sophisticated. Brimming with suavity and what not.” Tilting back the noggin, I blew a cloud of extremely sophisticated smoke.

“Yes, you are somewhat reminiscent of Mr. Coward, sir. Tall and lissome.” There was amusement in the man’s tone. “Come back to bed, sir.”

“Let me finish this gasper.” Then I made the mistake of looking in the direction of the bed. Jeeves had lifted the bedclothes. He wore no pajamas.

The cigarette was mashed out, the dressing gown and pajamas hastily abandoned and the view out of the window was replaced by the view in the bed.

After, shall we say, taking in the view, Jeeves rolled back onto the pillows and I rolled myself onto Jeeves. He made a most pleasant cushion. 

“Jeeves, life cannot get better than this, not even if a chorus of cherubim burst in singing Gershwin. I’d shoo them away. ‘Terribly sorry, cherubim, but I am at present listening to my beloved’s heartbeat and do not wish to be disturbed’.”

“Dear Mr. Wooster,” Jeeves said, kissing my crowning glory.

I leaned across him to get a cigarette out of the silver box on the night table, and lit it. Turning my head so I wouldn’t blow smoke in the cove’s face, I rolled over so that I was also on my back, albeit still lying on Jeeves.

“Here we are, you and I, safe from the wrath of Ethan Carstairs, the spurned Miss Boniface, and the machinations of Miss Flambé. I’m not entirely unhappy that we had to flee Paris.” I gave a deep sigh. “The smartest thing I ever did was marrying you, Jeeves.”

“The smartest thing for both of us, sir.”

But wait, you’re asking yourself. Jeeves and Bertram Wooster, married? How did this happen? When did this dashing young man about town and his gentleman’s personal gentleman go from employer to employee to husband and husband?

If you have read my previous memoir, you can skip this part and get yourself a cup of tea. But the rest of civilization will be scratching their heads and so I must indulge in some tedious exposition.

We’re not _legally_ married. Lamentably, men cannot yet marry in Britain. Or anywhere else, for that matter. Except perhaps for a tiny village in the Hebrides as yet undiscovered.

But we are married in every other way. The past winter, after several years of pleasant kidding around, the scales fell from our eyes and we fell passionately in love. This is news to anyone who thought that my stoic valet is incapable of passion. Jeeves has loads of passion, absolute lorry loads. His massive intellect is matched by his, well, massive everything else. Our early explorations of each other tended to be marred by my being squashed one way or another. Since then, however, Jeeves has learned not to snuggle on top of me when we sleep lest my breathing become a well-nigh impossible task. Being squashed under Jeeves would be highly pleasant if it weren’t for the hypoxia.

But why should I care that Wooster and Jeeves are not as one in the eyes of God? We are one in the eyes of Marlene Dietrich—that reminds me, I should send her a nosegay in gratitude—after Miss Flambé, noted female impersonator, officiated our wedding in the damp subbasement of The Ripe Cherry. This establishment is a club for those of us attracted to the opposite of the opposite sex.

Our bridesmaids were an assortment of female impersonators, dressed in pink, and Beryl Dixon, the chorus girl who had played Cupid. The reception was held at the Princess Theater where Beryl’s show, ‘Nodes Follies of 1934’ was playing. Quite raucous with all of the show people. Jeeves's family were in attendance and a rather pleasant bunch they are. This Wooster felt a twinge of sadness because none of my relations could be invited. One quailed at the thought of Aunt Agatha charging in like an enraged Valkryie and setting fire to the place.

But hitching self to my specific dream rabbit was worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the Grand Hotel. It is still there. 
> 
> From Wikipedia: It was built in 1908. In 1922, two professional hoteliers, Messrs Henri Dehouve and André Voyenne, acquired a majority shareholding and took over the running of the company. They were to remain in charge for over twenty years. Since it first became known in the second half of the 19th century, and up until the 1930s, the French Riviera remained almost exclusively a luxury destination. Most visitors were either wealthy individuals of independent means or royalty from northern countries, in particular England and Russia.


	2. Paris, City Of Thingness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which difficulties must be surmounted. Particularly in regards to the hotel staff.

Let us go now to the beginning of our saga.

After our wedding, we decided on honeymooning in Paris, City of Thingness. The trip from London to Paris on the night ferry, which in a blatant case of false advertising sets sail in the afternoon, was uneventful. Save that Wooster had to take the first class carriage, while Jeeves was in tucked away in steerage. This was the first time we had been apart in weeks. A dining car dinner is never anything to write home about, but that night it was as ashes in my mouth. When I entered my sleeping car, the first thought I had was “could Jeeves and I fit into this bed?” followed by several moments of delightful imaginings. But finally I crawled into bed, which was too short for the long Wooster gams, and switched the light off. A gnawing sensation in the tum kept me awake all night. If I’d known where Jeeves was, I would have sneaked out of the sleeping car and bunked in with him. When I looked out of the window at the English Channel, sadness washed over me like water. But not like the water outside of my window, that would be quite unpleasant, given its contents besides water.

When we arrived at Gare du Nord, I hurried along the platform and into the station proper. It was all I could do not to hurl myself into my beloved’s arms as soon as I espied him taking care of the luggage. However, I put the brakes on my urge and sauntered over, jaunty as you please.

“Good morning, Jeeves!”

“Good morning, Mr. Wooster,” he said deferentially. “I am arranging to have our luggage to be delivered to our hotel.”

“I had a dickens of a night. Tossed and turned the whole way across the Channel.”

“I am sorry, sir. I too had some trouble sleeping.”

“Well, that will be solved as soon as we reach the hotel!” I rubbed my gloved hands together, and managed to lean heavily on him, using the pretext of flicking something off the top of a suitcase. He pressed back ever so slightly.

I speak a little bit of French—no, make that “ _oui_ ”,“ _non_ ”, and “ _Garçon ! Un brandy avec de l'eau pétillante, je vous prie_!” The taxi driver spoke so rapidly his words all blurred together in a sleek confluence of vowels and the occasional consonant. Fortunately, Jeeves speaks excellent French. He and the taxi driver talked for several minutes before we drove away from the station. Jeeves looked irritated but he replied in the negative when I asked if anything was wrong.

The Hotel de Luxe was in a rather _louche_ district of the City of Thingness, not a place where my friends and family were likely to set foot.

The hotel clerk presented Jeeves with two room keys.

_“Voici les clés de vos chambres, monsieur."_

Jeeves looked at the keys in his gloved hand, and one nostril flared. This was far from a good sign. _“Nous avons demandé des chambres communicantes, mon brave homme, et celles-ci étant au deuxième et au cinquième étages n’ont aucune possibilité de communiquer.”_ He turned to me. “Sir, I requested adjoining rooms, but the manager has given me keys to rooms on the second and fifth floor.”

I bobbed up from my seat. “Ridiculous, Jeeves ! What’s the point of a honeymoon if we’re on separate floors ! I mean to say, what ?”

Jeeves turned back to the clerk. _“L’hôtel n’a pas d'ascenseur.”_

 _“Ce n'est pas mon problème, monsieur.”_ The clerk shrugged a bored shoulder.

I could tell from Jeeves’s retort that he had asked to speak to the manager. The clerk disappeared into the back office. After several minutes the manager emerged, a haughty cove with a yellow waistcoat and a black mustache so lush he might as well have had a feather boa on his upper lip.

 _“Mais vous avez aussi demandé une vue de la Tour Eiffel,”_ said the blighter with a Gallic sneer. “ _Une vue sur la Tour Eiffel est la demande la plus fréquente dans cet hôtel. Nous avons pris grand soin, monsieur, à vous garantir une vue, ce qui n’aurait pas été possible à moins de vous avoir mis dans des chambres différentes. La suite n’a pas de vue, Monsieur. Ces deux belles chambres donnent sur la tour.”_

I caught about every second word. From where I stood, it seemed that the Gallic bird was proclaiming, with great vigor, that this hotel was famous for its view of the Eiffel Tower. But the suite Jeeves had arranged did not have said famous view. Apparently the separate rooms had corking views. The manager thought he was doing us a favor. But we were here so we could look at each other’s Eiffel Towers, dash it ! Paris could go hang.

Jeeves drew himself to his full impressive height. _“J'ai pris des mesures exactes pour avoir deux chambres voisines pour moi et mon employeur. Ayez la bonté de nous accueillir ainsi immédiatement.”_ He looked deferentially at me. “I have informed the manager that we must be given the suite.”

The manager put back the room keys and pulled another one from the wooden shelf. With a glare, he handed it to Jeeves. “ _Et la Tour Eiffel, alors?_ ”

_"Cela n’a pas d'importance.”_

The manager gave a sour smile, crossing his arms.

_“Mes excuses, Monsieur, il va falloir plusieurs heures avant que votre chambre ne soit prête. Si vous voulez, vous pouvez prendre un verre au bar de l'hôtel en attendant.”_

Jeeves slid the key into his coat pocket and walked to where I sat. “The gentleman informs me that our suite will not be ready for some hours, sir. I doubt his veracity, but he suggests we wait in the bar.”

“Dash it!”

“Some pumpkins, eh, Jeeves?"

He winced at the vernacular, but did I care? This suite was indeed a multitude of pumpkins, Tour Eiffel or not. 

“I promised you grand passion in the finest international hotels, what? This might not be the finest hotel, but t’will do, t’will serve.”

“Indeed, sir," Jeeves said. His tone said the opposite, because our suite looked rather like several of Marie Antoinette's most garish gowns had exploded, barely contained by the walls of the suite. There was pink satin all over the place, pink jacquard wallpaper, gold chairs with pink satin cushions, pink chairs with gold satin cushions, portraits of smug males in breeches and tight embroidered coats, porcelain milkmaids dotting every surface...it was a bit much to take in all at once. Especially without a martini in hand.

Having carried the suitcases into the master bedroom, Jeeves attended to the unpacking. When I followed and embraced him from behind, he stepped away.

“Sir, I must unpack. It would not do for our wardrobe to become wrinkled.”

“Jeeves, I have spent a sleepless night in a too-short bed, being tossed about by the English Channel until I thought yesterday's breakfast was to make a reappearance! The only thing that kept me sane was dreaming of you doing all sorts of unspeakable things to me! Dash the wardrobe!”

Jeeves straightened up and stared at me as if he didn’t know me. “Mr. Wooster, I cannot countenance your belittling of your wardrobe.”

That stare cowed me. “I’m sorry, Jeeves. I’m going to explore our new environs.”

“Very good, my own.”

The sitting room led into a large bedroom with an enormous bed, prettied up with a pink satin bedspread and drapey pink things at the head of the bed. Upstage right was a lavish _salle de bains,_ decked out with a pink marble bathtub. Easily large enough for two tall gentlemen to fit in, plus an elephant or two.

Passing back through the sitting room, there was another, slightly smaller bedroom. No less lavish, however. The tall windows faced the roofs of Paris, with no Eiffel Tower. No bother, I had a much more toothsome view in mind.

I ambled back into the master bedroom and sat on the bed. To pass the time, I observed Jeeves at work. He was at his most serene when involved in a duty, the same way a violinist looks when he plays a sonata. Relaxed, concentrating, at peace with the world. It was almost hypnotic, save for the persistent urge to throw him on the floor and have my way with the man.

The last informal evening wear hung up, the last hat dusted off, the last pair of socks expertly rolled, Jeeves turned to me.

The expression on his face was anything but serene. His grey tweed trousers displayed quite a sizeable bulge.

“My goodness, Jeeves, that is quite a sizeable bulge,” I observed.

What followed is a bit of a blur. Before I quite knew what was happening, Jeeves twirled me round, pulling my coat off my shoulders, then twirled me round to face him again, swiftly undoing the buttons of my suit jacket, waistcoat and shirt, fingers flying over the buttons with a deftness that I hoped to experience on my corpus instanter. His ardor truly was that of a Jeeves deprived of his Wooster for far too long. In a flash I was flat on my back on the pink satin coverlet, Jeeves straddling self as if in the saddle on a spirited mount. Which, come of think of it, he was.

He sat up on his haunches and stripped his upper coverings off with flattering haste. Once again my mouth watered at beholding his massive chest, dark chest hair with a sprinkling of grey, solid broad shoulders and thick neck. I reached up. grasped both of his pectorals, and squeezed. The feeling of his flesh in my fingers ratcheted up my lust a hundredfold. Judging by the groan he gave, it ratcheted up his as well. He rocked against lower Wooster, which was so excited that it would have undone my trouser buttons on its own if it could.

"I have been hard for you since we arrived at Gare du Nord," he gasped. He leaned forward on his hands, bent his head and very nearly kissed the life out of me!

“Jeeves, could you—could you kindly divest yourself of the rest of your garments. It's been far too long since this Wooster has seen you nude."

“ _Very_ good, sir,” he said, standing up. He proceeded to lose his trousers and the rest, shoes, socks, sock garters and drawers with twice his normal efficiency, if such a thing were possible. His magnificent body was magnificent indeed, tall and a more than a bit of an Adonis. His stiff-stander was rosy and leaking. Good heavens, what had I done to deserve such a man? Jeeves slowly lowered himself over me, balancing on his elbows. His thick thigh between mine, away we went, writhing against each other and kissing anything within reach, shoulders, arms, and particularly mouths, sucking on each other's tongues and making the most immodest noises. Our todgers pushed and pressed together as we writhed.

Jeeves lifted his head and looked down at me, dark eyes filled with devotion. “ _Come live with me and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove, That Valleys, groves, hills, and fields, Woods, or steepy mountain yields.”_

“Is that Keats, Jeeves?”

“Marlowe, sir. _And I will make thee beds of Roses And a thousand fragrant posies, A cap of flowers, and a kirtle Embroidered all with leaves of Myrtle”_

“What does Myrtle have to do with it?”

“ _Myrtus communis_ , sir, the common myrtle, is an evergreen shrub, with a fragrant essential oil. A kirtle is—“

“Not now, Jeeves.”

“Indeed, sir.”

“Save it for the long winter nights.”

“I would much rather save _you_ for the long winter nights, Mr. Wooster.” And then he kissed me again, licking around the perimeter of the young master’s lips. I have stated a number of times that Jeeves is a world-class kisser and I shall state it any number of times hence. Young Bertram has kissed a fair number of men and women and so he is qualified to state that Jeeves is head, shoulders and tongue above the rest.

Jeeves whispered to me in French, in a tone that was positively obscene. I had no idea what he was saying, but the tone of his voice implied that it was as filthy as a French postcard.

“Jeeves, what are you saying?” I gasped.

“ _Peu importe, mon camélia,_ ” he whispered, and lightly bit my earlobe. He proceeded to lightly bite me along the chin, then put his face in my hair and tugged at it with his teeth. I am embarrassed to admit I yowled like a house cat and came off violently, my prick next to his, which was still hard. Shifting off of me a tad, he put one large hand behind my head and pulled our mouths together, while stroking his prick roughly and fast, until he stiffened and moaned into my mouth. A gush of fluid spurted onto my groin.

We lay there, sticky and warm, in delicious lethargy.

“I believe I’m going to enjoy Paris,” I sighed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Garçon ! Un brandy avec de l'eau pétillante, je vous prie!” means "Waiter! A brandy and soda!"
> 
> “Peu importe, mon camélia,” "It is not important, my camellia."


	3. Blowing The Trumpet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bertie discovers something remarkable about his man. And towels are abused.
> 
> Please comment! I promise to respond!

“Jeeves, you know I desire you like billy-o, but it rather dampens the spontaneity when you insist on putting down towels.” Young Wooster was kneeling, eye to eye as it were, with his beloved’s impressively large tonsil-tickler. In my hand I held a small pot of strawberry jam, purloined from the French room service breakfast. Jeeves sat on the bed on a white fluffy towel, and there was a remarkably similar white fluffy towel under my knees.

Damn, I seem to have begun _in media sex_. We had spent the night kissing, grappling, rubbing, and otherwise engaging in the most delightful activities one could imagine. We fell asleep with Wooster using Jeeves for a mattress.

When I awoke, I was in the mood for another go-round of grappling, rubbing and otherwise engaging in the most delightful activities one could imagine. More delightful, if possible. But I was alone in the pink satin bed. There was no sign of the man. I looked for him under the bedclothes, because it pays to be thorough. Dash it, he wasn’t there. To my mind this showed a grievous lack of feeling on the man’s part.

Drawing on the purple paisley dressing gown over the unclothed form, I began the hunt. I looked for the blighter in the _salle de bain_ , the sitting room, and the second bedroom. It was there that one was greeted with a sight that nearly knocked one to the floor.

Clad only in sensible cotton vest and drawers, Jeeves was lying on the floor, lifting and lowering himself with his arms. His muscular shoulders and arms were working away, his legs straight behind him with his feet on tip-toes. Not only was my little soldier instantly standing at attention, it was ready to blow its trumpet. I couldn’t help a sort of gurgling “I say!”

His head snapped around, and instantly he was on his feet. “Good morning, sir,” he said. He was flushed from exertion, and...and...I can hardly note this down without needing to service myself...he was _perspiring._

Sweat slid down his handsome face, his vest was sticking to him. He might have been a Greco-Roman wrestler, fresh from a bout at the Palaestra at Olympia. He wiped some sweat out of his eyes with the palm of his hand.

“Jeeves,” I managed. “You’re—you’re—“

The man was positively abashed, by Jove.

“What—what—“ I gestured toward the floor.

“They are called push-ups, sir,” he replied. “They were thought to be invented by an Indian strongman, one Jerick Revilla, in 1905.”

“Jeeves, uh, Jeeves, uh, um, Jeeves,” I said weakly.

“I understand completely, sir. If you will wait, I shall take a shower and rejoin you in the bedroom.” His dark eyes looked down at my todger. Lower Wooster was signaling that it was to be taken seriously. He kissed me on the lips and smiled.

“A shower? Oh, no! No, no, no, I mean to say! Out of the question, my good man!”

You might think that Bertram Wooster, noted _flâneur_ of Bond Street, might have a shred of pride, an ounce of self-respect, a tinge of restraint. You might think wrong. At the sight of a single rivulet of honest sweat running down the cove’s neck to the top of his vest caused pride, self-respect and restraint to call it a day and head out to enjoy the scenery. This left me with little choice but to bury my face in the man’s chest, lapping like a thirsty feline at the evidence of his toil. Despite a feeble effort at protest, Jeeves let me grab his strong arm and lick my way from inside of his wrist up until the inside of his elbow. Epictetus would have proclaimed it delicious. I thrust my tongue into his mouth, letting him taste himself.

There was a loud knock on the door.

“ _Service de chambre._ ”

Jeeves gently pushed me away with a large hand. “I am sorry, sir, I had arranged for breakfast to be at this time.”

“Bloody hell, Jeeves, send him away!”

He looked down at me, raising one dark eyebrow. “If you would let the waiter in, sir, I would appreciate it. I am in no condition to do so. I shall be out momentarily.”

“Neither am I, dash it!” I was starkers under the dressing gown. I retied the sash, pulling it tight around me. I went to answer the door, telling my rebellious prick to stand down. It wouldn't! Ever resourceful, I picked up a pink satin cushion and held it jauntily in front of me so as to hide the evidence.

The staff at the Hotel de Luxe, Jeeves informed me, often hosted gentlemen in “adjoining rooms”. Which was one reason he’d selected this particular hotel. Still, I was not up to the challenge of having a waiter find me with my little soldier reading to take marching orders.

As expected, a waiter rolled in a table set with what the French laughingly call breakfast. Coffee, orange juice, croissants, and jam. Enough for a hummingbird, perhaps, but not for two virile men about to play the pink piccolo. We needed our strength!

This put me in a quandary. Demand a proper breakfast of eggs and b. or wait until after ravishing the _objet de ma luxure_ and go to a small cafe?

The decision was clear as soon as I formulated the choices to myself.

“ _Merci_ ,” I said, waving toward the door. The cushion almost slipped. I grabbed it. The waiter simply looked at me.

“ _Merci_ ,” I repeated, “Thank you. That will be all. _Adieu_.”

The waiter didn’t move.

“Jeeves!” I finally cried.

Jeeves stepped out of the bedroom. I was promptly robbed of speech. Jeeves shimmered past me. He was wearing the hotel’s white toweling robe, and his sweat-soaked hair had been combed back.

“ _Merci, serveur_.” He handed over a tip. From the waiter’s rather bug-eyed reaction, I gathered the tip was quite a bit more than he was used to receiving from Englishmen. With a rapid repetition of “ _Merci, merci, merci_!” the fellow backed out of the room. Jeeves shut the suite door.

“We shall not be bothered by—“

Jeeves was interrupted by my flinging the long Wooster arms around him and laying the Wooster lips on his tempting mouth. Fortunately he allowed the liberty, giving up speech as well, in favor of an altogether pleasanter oral activity. The cushion fell to the floor, but Jeeves kept kissing me rather than step back and pick the thing up. I slid my hands down across his wide back and pushed my groin against his. Unsubtle, but there are times when subtlety will not do. At these times the bold statement is called for.

“I say,” I gasped, “what you were doing before, that pushing up and down thing, it rather inflamed my loins. You are NOT to shower, my good man!”

He raised an eyebrow. “No shower, sir? That would be most unhygienic.”

“Hang the hygiene, Jeeves, your smell and taste are too intoxicating to be washed away!” To emphasize my point, before he could protest, I turned his hand over in mine and flicked his pulse point with my tongue.

This caused a shudder to run through his strapping frame. In a low voice, he mumbled something in French. I was going to have to find a bally phrasebook, dash it!

“Jeeves, you are absolutely scrumdolius,” I observed. “You are cordially invited to do what you will with young Bertram. RSVP required immediately.”

Jeeves rsvp’d by scooping me up and carrying me into the master bedroom, whereupon he dropped me on the great pink bed. Picking up my cue, I lay flat and flung my arms out wide. “Welcome to _la maison_ Wooster!”

My man made himself at home at once. He knelt over me and opened my dressing gown, running his hand over the svelte Wooster chassis. He studied the floor plan with his luscious lips, starting with my neck. I do not brag when I say he found it much to his satisfaction. He parted my dressing gown and nuzzled my chest, giving each pink nipple a chaste peck.

“You know, I’ve always hated the word ‘nipple’,” I mused. “It sounds like something you’d tweak.”

“Thank you for the suggestion, sir,” Jeeves said with a wicked smile, and tweaked the left one! I resolved to learn to the love the word, as t.ing my n. made me writhe like a drunken garden snake. As revenge is a dish best served at close range, I tweaked his left one, causing him to gasp and drop down on top of me. I yelped—or tried to, but I was flattened like a _gallette._

Jeeves instantly propped himself up on his elbows, concern writ across his map. “Did I hurt you, sir?”

“No,” I replied, trying not to sound as though I was struggling for breath. “But if you could be a tad more careful in future, it would be appreciated.”

“My dearest Mr. Wooster,” he crooned apologetically, and kissed me on the cheek. He rolled over onto his side and slid his hand down my flank, ending up pressed against the pride of the Woosters. The feeling of silk against my straining stiff-stander was almost enough to make me wail and climax, but Bertram is made of stronger stuff. Not as strong as Jeeves, because no one is made of stronger stuff than Jeeves, but I bit the inside of my lip and resolved to carry on.

“Hang it, Jeeves, you can do better than _that_ ,” I said, and if there was an edge of desperation in my tone, what of it. Have you ever had Jeeves’s hand pressing against your straining stiff-stander? I very much doubt you have. A potent combination of lust and love was clouding my head and making a racket below my navel.

“Very good, sir,” he responded. He swung a muscular leg over me and sat up, rising above me like an oak tree I should very much to shimmy up. He doffed his robe, tossing it to one side. Good lord, the man’s broad chest and strong shoulders made me rather beside myself.

“ _Ma citrouille d'amour,”_ he whispered, leaned down and ravished my mouth. My mouth was quite happy to be ravished.

“I don’t know what you mean, but it sounds spiffing!”

With an evil smile, Jeeves sat up again, closing my dressing gown and again rubbing the pride of the Woosters through the silk with his large hand. Really, he covered not only my soldier but the entire regiment with one hand. He squeezed gently, obviously gratified by the squeal I gave out with. He squeezed again and again, teasing my rock-hard cock by gently moving his palm over it. This was truly unbearable and delicious at the same time. Leave it to Jeeves to manage that mixture.

He rubbed faster, gazing down at me with adoration in his dark eyes. I squirmed and shook. Then he laid his hand flat and moved it back and forth, gently squeezing. It was too much.

I shall pause here to remind the reader of my previous chronicles that I consider it rather unbecoming of a gentleman to repeat what two lovers say during carnal activities. When I am reading erotica, it causes lust to die to read the heroine exclaiming, "shove your cock into my wet cunny!" or the hero shouting "I shall take you with the rampant engine of my love!"

Therefore I prefer to paraphrase our cries of passion. Take my word for it, ounce for ounce we were shrieking words that will never make it into my reminisces no matter how spicy they are. Instead, I shall paraphrase our exclamations, and you can substitute whatever endearments you see fit. So you will understand they may sound a tad peculiar now and then.

I grabbed the pink satin coverlet, exclaiming (If I might paraphrase to save myself embarrassment) “the vessels of the sanctuary and the trumpets of the blast were in his hand!” My trumpet blasted, all right! The purple paisley dressing gown was unfortunately soiled.

Jeeves leaned back, his hands on either side of me on the bed. His erection beckoned. Lower Jeeves was dark red and leaking. I refer to it as “lower Jeeves” because “little Jeeves” does not do his impressive prick justice.

“I need to have your miraculous todger in my mouth immediately if no sooner, my man,” I panted when next I was able to catch my breath. Jeeves climbed off the bed, stood and pulled me to my feet. Inspired, I snagged the pot of jam from the table.

And this is how we arrive at the present moment. Wooster, kneeling on towel; Jeeves, sitting on towel; Jeeves’s todger, pointing at Wooster.

I parted his thighs, then slicked up both hands with the strawberry jam. When I rubbed said jam on his prick, it throbbed and got even harder, if such a thing were possible. Jeeves clenched his teeth, breathing through his nose.

“You won’t be able to keep silent in a minute,” I teased, running a strawberry smeared finger around the tip of his prick. Jeeves gasped but uttered not a sound. I leaned forward and took his enormous member into my mouth, licking off the jam as I did so. That did it: Jeeves let out a yelp of pleasure. I smiled, and fell to sucking with a will, using my hand to stroke the portion I could not fit into my mouth. His bollocks struck my throat. All of this activity was causing absolute lustful agony on the part of yours truly. Lower Wooster was once again making itself known. I forced myself to concentrate on Jeeves. Which was easy, because he was puffing like a steam engine. At moments he garbled something in French.

I had no idea what Jeeves was saying, but it was easy to gather that it was quite flattering to yours truly. The smell of his arousal and the strawberry jam mingled deliciously. Scrumptious as it was, it was time to move on to the next item on the menu, i.e. me. I redoubled my efforts, licking, sucking, and pulling at lightning speed.

He grabbed the edge of the bed, crushing the white towel. His todger swelled even more and he yelled out (in English) something I will paraphrase: “I call him free who is led solely by reason!” His seed flooded my mouth.

He flopped backwards on the bed, one hand wiping his brow. I scrambled up and sat on him, reversing our position of earlier, legs on either side of his chest.

Jeeves lifted dazed eyes to mine. “Thank you, my own,” he said with a sigh.

Lower Wooster was once again standing at attention. "My turn," I announced.

At this rate we weren't going to leave our hotel suite any time soon. Hang the breakfast!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ma citrouille d'amour - my pumpkin of love
> 
> "I call him free who is led by reason" - Spinoza, who else?
> 
> “The vessels of the sanctuary and the trumpets of the blast were in his hand!” the Bible. Bertie's Scripture Prize comes in handy!


End file.
